The Secret Life of Rodmilla de Ghent
by Narcissist-Cissy
Summary: Some secrets may explain many things... Review please! A very long one shoot


Danielle placed the final piece of silverware on the table as she exited  
the dining room. She smiled to herself while she thought of the  
wonderful time she'd have while the Baroness and her spoiled, selfish  
children were at the market buying clothes for their already overflowing  
wardrobes. They are sure to be gone all day, she thought, as she put a  
spoon in front of Marguerite's seat. They're so damned picky, it'll  
take hours just to find undergarments, she thought while she climed the  
staircase to the bedrooms. She chuckled as she placed her foot on the  
final step.

Quickly turning the corner of the corridor, Danielle approached the  
large, oaken door to Jacqueline's room. It was customary to awaken the  
plump stepsister first, for she was always in a good disposition, the  
better to start a busy everyday. Danielle gently rapped upon the door.

"Yes," came a meek, sheepish voice from behind the wooden surface.

"Time for breakfast, Jacqueline," Danielle replied.

"Alright, I shall be ready shortly."

Danielle's lips drew tightly together as she walked towards the second  
door. Her hand curled itself into a taut fist when she reached the  
entrance to Marguerite's room. Her free hand knocked.

"What is it?" an acidic voice answered.

Danielle wanted to yell all the forbidden words under Heaven at the  
little snake. Instead, she grit her teeth and restrained herself.

"Breakfast, Marguerite."

The sound of sucking teeth preceeded a reply, "Well wake Mother, you  
stupid girl!"

Danielle hissed and rolled her eyes. She turned towards the final door  
in the hall. Instead of being welcomed with the rich dark brown color  
of the doorway, she could barely see the lintel behind the shadows. The  
rest of the door was obscured in darkness. It seemed to be miles away.  
An oppressive air saturated the hallway. Overcome by the sensation, she  
slowed down, concentrating on breathing. Her brisk pace slowed to a  
nervous walk. Proud strides reduced to mincing, tentative steps. A  
subtle feeling of dread gently rested upon her mind and heart. She  
wiped her moistening palms upon her dirty apron. Her heart pounded on  
her eardrums. The thuds were so powerful that she feared she would  
vomit the organ if she opened her mouth.

When Danielle finally reached the Baroness's chambers, she froze. All  
the warmth and heat of the season suddenly escaped from her, leaving her  
with gooseflesh instead of skin. With a pale, trembling hand, she  
gently knocked upon the door. No answer. She listened carefully as she  
knocked again to be sure the Baroness did not say something she didn't  
hear. When she still received no reply, she called into the door,  
"Milady, breakfast is ready."

Still no answer. She supposed that her stepmother would rather sleep,  
but she thought of the terrible lashing that would inevitably follow for  
allowing her stepmother to miss her meal. That idea quickly disspelled  
any notion that she should allow the lady to rest. She grasped the cold  
iron knob and twisted it. The oaken door opened with a loud squeak. A  
pool of blackness seeped out into the hallway. Danielle stepped into  
the darkness.

The draperies were all down, and they covered the bedroom so completely  
that it looked as if night had never faded. The waxy scent of melted  
candles drifted outside. Lifeless air stagnated the inside. The odor  
was old, so decomposed that it smelled almost like soil. Yet, something  
else was still there, hidden, within the silent stone walls. It was  
like ashes spread across the silt of a river. Danielle sneezed. The  
floating dust stirred and brought a tiny morsel of life into the room.  
Minute bits of the sneeze settled upon her skin like the tickling  
drizzle.

Danielle ambulated slowly, bumping her way towards the general direction  
of the window ahead. When she reached the cold, rugged wall, she  
stretched out her arm and felt along its surface until her fingers  
caught the warm velvet of a curtain. She pulled it along the valance  
and winced as brilliant sunlight invaded the room.

Danielle turned around. The sun's rays illuminated the Baroness's  
room. All the familiar landmarks were there: the bed, the trunk, the  
throne-like chair beside the hearth. She looked at the velvet and linen  
tomb which she recognized as a bed. She crept toward it. When she  
reached the berth, she grasped the canopy. Her throat had become  
parched, and she swallowed hard as she pulled the awning open. Inky  
darness overflowed from the mattress and threatened to spill onto the  
floor below. But light conquered the encroaching blackness and flowed  
upon the motionless form resting there, revealing the face, neck, and  
hands of the Baroness.

Danielle trembled as she looked at her stepmother lying there. She lay  
perfectly immobile with her long hands perched calmly on her bosom, one  
inside the other. Black hair rested neatly on the bed, outlining her  
form in a thick ebony mass. She was so placid that it looked as if she  
were made of marble instead of flesh. In the manner of that element,  
she made not a single twitch or movement which normally occurs with  
sleep. The Baroness's complexion was like that of a statue, an almost  
diaphanous white with a hint of gray. Her skin was stretched tightly  
over her fine, angular bones. The woman's lips were dry, and her  
eyeballs sank a little inside their sockets.

Danielle shook her head. It could not be. She held her breath as she  
balanced herself on her hands and leaned towards the Baroness's face,  
her ear tiltled towards the lady. There was no sign of the miracle.  
Danielle chastised herself for wishing such a thing upon a person, but  
her heart still fluttered a bit as she thought of the possibility. She  
leaned forward further, and she nearly fell, but she managed to catch  
herself on her stepmother's cold hands before she could topple onto  
her. The young woman gasped, barely able to restrain herself from  
screaming. She blinked hard. Had she awakened her stepmother? She  
hadn't. The Baroness was not even pushed by her stepdaughter's  
clumsiness. The woman lay there, cold and as a great stone slab.  
Danielle placed her hands on each side of her stepmother's body, and she  
slowly lowered herself towards the woman's chest. She listened for the  
dull beating of Rodmilla's heart. She heard someone breathing, but it  
was the sound of her own fluttering suspiration. Danielle held her  
weight on one hand and used the other to pry underneath the cold digits  
of Rodmilla's hands. The chill of her skin seeped through the  
nightgown. Danielle felt around the woman's sternum and searched for  
the presence of that life-giving organ, but she could find it nowhere.  
The realization sent a cold shiver speeding up her spine. Oh God, she  
thought, could the lord have given me salvation at last? Perhaps He  
did. Danielle raised herself from the Baroness's body. A feeling of  
peace swept over her as she moved out from under the canopy.

She nearly fainted when a hand of ice wrapped around her wrist. She  
turned back inside the canopy, and the vision of a skeletal figure  
slowly arising from death filled Danielle with an intense fear. The  
girl opened her mouth to scream, but the grip of froze her will.  
Danielle just sat there and watched as the skeleton slowly began to rise  
from its mausoleum.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" it demanded of her in a voice  
that was like broken glass and burning fire.

Danielle answered quickly before the creature could do anything rash,  
"Breakfast, milady."

"Very well then," it answered, in a more human voice. It turned  
Danielle loose, and the Baroness sat up on the end of the bed. Danielle  
could not look directly at her stepmother, but she knew the look that  
came from her. The lady had a way of gazing at her which made her feel  
violated, as if she were prying into the deepest corners of her mind.  
Danielle's eyes fluttered, and her breathing grew more erratic. Heat  
surged through her body. A few beads of sweat dropped upon her hands.

"Tell the others I shall join them shortly," she heard her stepmother  
say. Danielle gave a brief, respectful nod and scurried out of the  
room. She closed the door behind her so quickly that it was almost a  
slam. She hurried down the stairway and into the kitchen, where  
Marguerite and Jacqueline were waiting to be served.

"What took you so long?" the blonde coldly asked, "And where is Mother?"

"She said she'd be down shortly."

"Fine," replied Marguerite. "I want a four-minute egg and bread."

"Yes, Margureite," Danielle mechanically responded, her mind still  
swimming with the events which transpired in the Baroness's chambers.

"And what would you like, Jacqueline?"

"Whatever you make is fine with me."

Danielle rushed into the kitchen before they could see her hands  
trembling uncontrollably. She started on breakfast to shake the fear out  
of her mind, putting on six eggs, bacon, and bread. The oppressive heat  
of the kitchen made her feel nauseous, so she ran outside to get the  
apples.

Danielle stood by the fireplace preparing her stepmother's ivory-handled  
brush for grooming. Rodmilla reclined on the bed daydreaming. The  
Baroness had been oddly whimsical that day since she noticed Prince  
Henry's interest in Marguerite. She was toying with her ambitions,  
painting a lovely picture of what she believed was her daughter's  
preordained fate.

"Could you imagine? Paris at Christmas?" she said in such a way that  
was amazingly, for the Baroness, childlike and imaginative. It was a  
manner Danielle wasn't accustomed to, yet she could not resist feeling  
hopeful along with her stepmother. The woman's moods were contagious.  
The fact that she was having a good one made this evening a great deal  
more pleasant for Danielle.

"It must be something spectacular, milady," Danielle answered, smiling  
sheepishly. After ten years of service to her stepmother, she learned  
very early to appreciate the rare moments when Rodmilla was in the least  
bit amicable.

"Yes, it certainly is," the Baroness said. She let the rest of her  
thought float into the air and finally dissipate like smoke from a dead  
fire.

The Baroness, in her characteristic feline grace, arose from the bed and  
walked over to the chair. There was not even the lightest sound of a  
footstep emmitted from her as she made her way to the chair by the  
fireplace.

"You know," she continued, "My mother was rough on me too, you know.  
She taught me that cleanliness was next to godliness, and she forced me  
to wash my face at least twenty times a day, convinced it was never  
clean enough. But I was very grateful."

Danielle was convinced of the Baroness's statement, afraid to even  
think a thought contrary to her stepmother's words. Yet, there was  
something about the noblewoman's words which gently pierced Danielle's  
heart. For a brief instant, she felt Rodmilla was warmer, more  
understanding, more- human- than she initially believed. She quickly  
dismissed it as a futile hope.

The Baroness regally roosted herself upon the hard mahogany chair. She  
flung her black hair over the edge. Danielle separated a thick lock and  
started to brush through it. The Baroness's hair was just enviable. It  
was as soft and smooth as dyed silk, and many times more abundant. The  
color was such a rich ebony that Danielle thought black ink would run  
into her hands if she held it too long. It was completely opposite to  
the colorless, ragged stringiness she saw on so many women, including  
herself. It was hair she would enjoy brushing if it belonged to someone  
else. It had the refreshing fragrance of jasmines in the summer, yet it  
was cool and subtle as the autumn wind. Danielle wondered what it would  
be like to sleep on a pillow made of this hair as she groomed another  
section. As she brushed through the elegant locks, Danielle noticed  
something odd. The Baroness was unrealistically still. She made not a  
single jerk or flinch as the brush weeded through a few tangles and  
roots. Danielle could not even sense the regular heaving of the  
shoulders that normally accompanies respiration. For a moment, she  
believed that her stepmother was not breathing. It was only until the  
noblewoman once again broke the silence that Danielle did not hesitate  
to see if she was alive.

"She wanted me to be all that I could be, and here I am. A Baroness.  
And Marguerite shall be queen." The words had an understated confidence  
about them which Danielle thought was normal on the Baroness's part yet  
in a way oddly prophetic. She mechanically continued to brush the  
section of hair which she held in her tiny hands.

Rodmilla grasped Danielle's wrist, and the girl's heart skipped several  
beats. The coldness of the Baroness's skin assaulted her, and its power  
sapped her strength. She was a prisoner of her stepmother's glacial  
grasp. Her first reaction was fear. What had she done? What will be  
done to her? Before she could ask, "What is wrong, milady?" the girl  
was gently yet powerfully pulled to face her stepmother.

At this moment, the young woman realized for the first time that she did  
not know the color of Rodmilla's eyes. She had combed the Baroness's  
hair every night for the past ten years, without fail, and it just  
dawned upon her that she'd never seen the woman's face close enough to  
really see what she looked like. Most importantly, she never looked  
into Rodmilla's eyes to really see HER. Were her eyes green like the  
serpent in the garden? Icy gray like the winter she so accurately  
represents? Dark blue like the deep ocean?

She tried to keep her eyes to the floor, to resist the urge to look at  
her stepmother's face. She knew it would seem insubordinate to the  
Baroness, and that the slightest hint of disobedience would mean a  
terrible whipping for her. Yet, Danielle felt a compelling curiosituy  
to face Rodmilla and see into her eyes. She felt a burning desire to  
study her stepmother's face, to find out the meanings behind each line,  
each wrinkle, each dimple. She tried to fight it, but in the end her  
instincts won over her good reason. She looked up, and focused her eyes  
upon her stepmother.

Her eyes were brown, almost black. Danielle had known since she was a  
child that the eyes were the windows to the soul, and she wondered if  
Rodmilla's soul were similarly dark. She looked deeper, trying to  
discover anything else which may lie hidden beneath their depths. But  
she sensed nothing except the glowing reflection of fire upon the  
irises.

"Pity you never knew your mother," she said, snapping Danielle back from  
her search. The lady continued, "There must be a little of her in you  
somewhere."

Rodmilla gave Danielle a sincere gaze. It seemed to her stepdaughter so  
earnestly human; her stepmother looked at her in such a way that was  
almost tender, almost maternal, almost like love. Danielle immediately  
felt a keen desire to openly ask this person sitting in Rodmilla's room,  
in Rodmilla's chair, where she had put her stepmother, but she knew not  
to complain about good things. She cherished this moment, if only for  
its rarity. On the other hand, she cursed herself for being so naive.  
Danielle felt uneasy looking down at her stepmother. She was just a  
servant, not a noblewoman. She kneeled before Rodmilla's wooden throne  
and stared up at her; she felt more at ease at the woman's feet.

Danielle wished she knew more about her mother: what she looked like,  
how she spoke, her disposition. But that was not possible now; her  
father had been reluctant to talk about her at best. The servants only  
knew her sweet and kind demeanor, not about her total personality. Now  
even second-hand accounts were impossible.

"I wish I knew what she looked like," she muttered to Rodmilla.

The Baroness gave her stepdaughter a sarcastic retort, "Yes. But we  
must never feel sorry for ourselves, must we? Because no matter how bad  
things get they can always get worse."

The noblewoman paused, looking at her commoner stepdaughter. The woman  
sighed before she continued, more gently than her last statement, "But  
you remind me so much of your father. Sometimes, I can see him looking  
out through your eyes."

"Really?" Danielle asked, her face and voice beamed with the comment.

Rodmilla continued, half-joking, "Yes. Of course, you have such  
masculine features."

Danielle almost laughed. She admitted to herself that her stepmother  
was right; she was not a proper woman. Her complacent expression waned  
when she stared again into Rodmilla's eyes. The whites had now turned  
bright pink, almost red, and watery droplets hanged like newborn  
diamonds at her eyelashes, but they did not fall. Rodmilla's eyes  
seemed like they had seen many tears yet were still unused to crying.  
Her face seemed conflicted as her eyes squinched to keep from blinking  
and revealing her valuable secret. For a moment, Danielle was stabbed  
by a deep pity for her stepmother. How torturous her existence must be,  
she thought, to feel so much pain yet not be able to express it, even if  
she wanted to. She thought that perhaps there may be something deep  
within Rodmilla after all.

Danielle swallowed her pity and timidly attempted to speak. There was  
something she wanted, needed to ask. She had to do it at while they  
were both off guard. She cautiously parted her lips as she began to  
inquire directly into the matter, the only way she knew how, "Did you  
love my father?"

Rodmilla smiled delicately. Her eyes lit up, but the light did not come  
from the fire alone. Danielle thought she had seen something akin to  
affection within Rodmilla's eyes. She listened attentively for the  
answer, trying to see what her words, or her silence, could tell her.  
Rodmilla paused before she finally answered, "I hardly knew him."

Yet the sadness Danielle had seen so close to the surface never faded.  
Danielle was left unsatisfied, for she wanted to believe that Rodmilla  
didn't love her father, if only to feel justified in hating her more.  
But Rodmilla's words and actions showed differently. The mention of  
Danielle's father almost made tears fall, and the real question about  
her feelings towards Auguste de Barbarac was left unanswered. It was so  
paradoxical, so unlike her ordinary habit.

Danielle thought it might be best not to press the issue further. She  
returned to her place behind the chair and began again to brush the  
Baroness's hair. While she groomed the noblewoman, she felt a gentle,  
disdainful nudge upon her hand as she attempted to brush through the  
dark locks. She stopped, but before she could utter a word, the  
Baroness quietly commanded her, "Go away. I'm tired."

Danielle did as she was told, and she placed the brush upon the tiny  
table standing next to the chair. She nimbly exited the Baroness's  
quarters, closing the door quietly behind her. When she had left the  
room, a freezing wind wraped around her body. She looked around her.  
The castle was a graveyard: silent, dark, and eerie. She hurried  
towards her sleeping quarters. As she made her way along the dark  
corridors and towards the twisted stairway that led through her hovel,  
millions of thoughts plagued her mind. Did Rodmilla love her father?  
Why did she seem so much more humane than she did before? How could she  
hate her and look at her with such fondness? Through all the confusion,  
she felt the dull ache of guilt upon her. She did not know the reason  
behind this feeling, but she intuitively understood that its source was  
Rodmilla.

As she made her way up to her bedroom, she pondered upon the peculiar  
episode that took place within the Baroness's chambers. For all the  
time she has known her stepmother, it was only now that she realized  
that there was a human being inside the tall, imposing woman she had  
known for so long. Her head started to hurt from all the thoughts, and  
she cleared her mind of the whole mess. But the feeling was still  
there, the guilt. She quickly went into a comfortable, fetal position  
upon her straw mattress, and she closed her eyes and thought of pleasant  
things. She wondered when she would be able to fly Signor Da Vinci's  
new toy. The thought trailed off as Danielle drifted to sleep, and that  
night she dreamt of flying.

The young monarch casually reclined on her bed. Crimson velvet swooped  
from the canopy onto the floor. She was reading, as was her usual habit  
before retiring. She was immersed in the book. Her eyes glided across  
the letters on the page as if those words would be her last sight on  
this earth.

It was night, as always. Nearby candlelight provided a dim yet  
comforting orange glow to the room. Pink toes grazed the empty space  
beside the queen. Danielle read until her eyes felt tight and itchy.  
The letters on the parchment jumbled together in a senseless arrangement  
of ink and paper. She rubbed her eyes as the book came closed in a dull  
thud; she placed the tome on the table next to her bed.

It was a long while past the time His Majesty normally came to bed. A  
knot grew inside her belly, heavy and tight. Maybe there had been an  
accident. Danielle pushed the thought aside. Had such a misfortune  
taken place, the servants would have informed her by now. Something was  
definitely wrong.

Danielle sat up. Her feet dangled over the edge of the bed, and her  
toes reached longingly for the floor. She looked down for her shoes,  
cursing when she did not see them beside the bed. Flesh smacked stone  
when she leapt off the mattress. She kneeled on the floor and peeked  
underneath the bedstead. There were her shoes, two black silhouettes  
barely an arm's reach away. In a single swipe, both were collected in  
her hands. Danielle stood up. Before she had the first shoe on her  
foot, the air inside her suddenly left her body. Deathlike silence  
stopped her ears, and she could only hear two hollow taps as her shoes  
plummeted to the floor. Danielle's neck froze; the chill seeped into  
her voice, stopped cold. She flailed her arms about, frantically trying  
to escape the icy grasp of her unseen nemesis. The vice-like grip  
closed in tighter, and Danielle could felt bloodless fingers consticting  
her vertebrae. She strained her eyes to the corners of their sockets.  
She saw darkness. With fear holding her fast, Danielle prayed. Her  
mouth did not speak, but the words shouted in her mind. Tears burned  
down her face. Her eyelids closed tightl, and she uttered the prayer  
repeatedly until her mind went numb from the repetition.

"Life's not fair, is it?" said the thing from the darkness. It was so  
strangely calm, so soothing, that at first Danielle did not believe she  
was in danger at all. There was something familiar about it. Something  
that struck her deeply, and her fear returned. Danielle mustered all  
her inner strength to ask, "Wh- Who are you?" The words came out  
weakly, like the frightened girl she used to be rather than the  
dignified monarch.

The phonation recalled for her, "Do you remember what I told you,  
Danielle? Nothing is final until you're dead, and even then God  
negotiates."

Danielle tried to shake her head. The stony hand prevented any movement  
there. It couldn't be. It was impossible. It had all come back to her  
in a quick rush of remembering. And still she disbelieved. Still she  
tried not to remember. Yet, she remembered, and she believed. There  
was no escaping it. The realization was as solid as the earth.

As she watched the figure approach within range of the soft candlelight,  
Danielle congealed. That posture, that deathlike color, those hateful,  
vengeful eyes. Slowly, the darkness melted into the familiar form. It  
was the apparition of a forgotten and painful memory standing before  
her. There, as if it had always waited there, in the shadows of her  
bedroom, was the Baroness Rodmilla de Ghent.

Danielle's face glistened with sweat. Her teeth chattered quietly, and  
her knees butted each other. She felt so helpless, like a chick in a  
nest with the shadow of a hawk looming overhead. She wanted to abandon  
the vestiges of civilization and turn to blind panic. But a huge weight  
sank inside her, and it prevented any hope of freedom.

It wasn't real; it was just a dream. Rodmilla was dead; she died last  
year during the epidemic with many commoners. She was buried in a  
pauper's grave. Henry had seen to it himself. He would have had her  
burned, but Danielle resisted it, explaining that such actions would  
make them no better than she. Yet, she was there. She was there, and  
she was not dead, not disintegrated anonymously into the earth.

"B-but y-you're d-d-d-d-dead. You c-can't be- Henry- Henry saw," she  
said.

The Baroness shook her head, "Tsk-tsk-tsk. You are a fool, Your  
Highness. There are things about which you cannot possibly understand.  
In either case, I'll kill you before you can find out too much."

Danielle moaned underneath the arachnid fingers. "K-kill me?" She grew  
more afraid. She was held prisoner in the wintry grasp, so she could not  
run. held Her voice was gone, so could not scream. As it became  
intolerable, she felt herself ease into her primitive ancestry.  
Something hot ran in a river down her leg, trailing from her loins to  
her knees, and then to her ankles before running onto the floor. The  
room started to blur in a mix of color and light. She felt as if she  
were floating, and then she was shocked awake when she crashed upon the  
bed. She coughed until she respired normally again. Danielle inhaled  
deeply and savored the fresh air that filled her youthful lungs. Her  
diaphragm heaved as the rush of air circulated through her. She  
clutched the crucifix dangling onto her chest, silently thanking God she  
was still alive. She did not dare to run, for her legs felt too awkward  
to move. She felt like screaming as loud as God would allow her. The  
notion left as soon as her ears picked up the tomblike silence of the  
castle. She wondered why no one had stopped Rodmilla. Then, she  
realized that she had not heard the slow, heavy footsteps of the guard  
patrolling the halls. She had not heard the muffled whispers of the  
servants as they made their way to bed. She normally did not hear them,  
but that was because she tuned them out of her mind. But on this night,  
such meditation was unnecessary. What had happened to them? Where  
were the guards, the servants? Where was Henry? The Baroness  
confidently slithered into a chair standing next to the night stand.  
Moonlight trickled inside the room, and its luminescence tickled the  
surface layer of Rodmilla's hair.

"What- What did you do to Henry?" Danielle demanded, her face growing  
slightly more ruddy as anger swelled into her skull.

Her stepmother casually tossed a loose strand of hair from her face.  
With the Baroness's silent affirmation, Danielle knew Henry's fate. A  
deep, sharp pain slashed across Danielle's chest. Tears trickled onto  
her face and down her neck. She only hoped that God was merciful and  
allowed Henry quickly and painlessly into Paradise. "How could you?  
How could you?!" she sobbed.

"For God's sake, child. I have to eat something," the Baroness  
reported. Danielle shook her head, covering her sobs with her delicate  
hand as her body shook violently.

When her tears had stopped, Danielle felt empty inside. Their lives  
together had seemed so short. It was like a mere blink to the years her  
stepmother could have known. The woman always seemed so- ancient to  
her. There seemed to be an age inside her that didn't show. How old  
could she be? One hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? How many  
empires had she seen in her day? How many generations of royalty did  
she see perish? If she could come back from the dead, she was probably  
immortal.

Danielle looked at her stepmother. She examined the dull, earthen rags  
which clung to her stepmother like a shroud, barely covering what needed  
to be hidden. A black shawl of hair covered her shoulders. She looked  
at the hard, chisled face. She almost winced at the skeleton which  
started to show underneath thin, ashy layer of tissue which comprised  
Rodmilla's skin. Danielle never realized how deathly thin Rodmilla  
was. She had up until now only seen her covered in layer upon layer of  
clothes. Her stomach turned at the blue rivers of veins running up her  
bony, wiry arm. She looked so- Danielle hesitated to use think the  
word- weak. Danielle wonders if she could really be dead. If indeed  
she was, what could wait beyond death for her, and Henry?

"Rodmilla," she said. The stony corpse nearly lost her facial composure  
when she heard her name called. The expressionless visage returned  
within half a blink of an eye.

"I will not spare you, and I will not release you," she snapped.

Danielle didn't expect that much from her stepmother, so the  
disappointment which would have followed at the manor did not even raise  
its head inside the palace.

"No, stepmother, that's not what I meant. I was thinking-" she let the  
words trail off, knowing how much the Baroness hated to be teased with  
words.

"Out with it," the Baroness responded coldly.

"Am I allowed a last request? If you are going to kill me, the least  
you can do is grant me that," Danielle sternly commanded.

"If it is reasonable, I'll consider it."

"Well, you know how Papa used to tell me about philosophy, science, and  
metaphysics. Surely if you are truly dead, you know something about the  
things beyond this world."

The Baroness rolled her eyes at the young queen. Danielle knew that her  
stepmother at least had to give her that. She did not expect to  
survive the encounter, but before she went, she could at leasthave some  
kind of knowledge worth dying for. Rodmilla sighed. "What is your  
request?"

Danielle smiled, almost overjoyed at this uncharacteristically giving  
overture. She thought for a while, making sure that her request was  
good enough to give her what she wanted but feasible enough not to tempt  
the Baroness's ire.

"I want you to answer my questions, that's all," Danielle said.

"What kind of questions?"

"Questions you can answer."

"How many?"

"Ten."

"Seven," the Baroness ordered.

"Eight," insisted Danielle

"Five," the Baroness retorted.

Danielle knew that before long it would be three and then one, so she  
did not tempt her luck too much. She was satisfied with five questions,  
but she knew she had to struggle to make them good ones.

"Your first question," demanded Danielle's stepmother.

Danielle realized that the Baroness was in no mood for mind games, and  
she would view certain issues unfavorably. Rodmilla could change her  
mind at a moment's notice, and then kill her as soon as she did.  
Danielle stuck to the easy questions.

"What are you?"

The Baroness relaxed in the chair. She sat in her naturally upright  
position, like she was born to do, and looked at Danielle with a  
Crusader's conviction.

"Among superstitious peasants, I am known as a vampire."

If it were not for the seriousness of the expression, Danielle would  
have laughed herself silly, but as she contemplated what had happened to  
her, her mirth fizzled. She had heard the legends, but she didn't  
believe them. Each superstition was wilder than the next. Vampires  
drink blood; they can't stand holy ground or crucifixes; they hate  
garlic, can't cross running water, and instantly turn to ash the minute  
a sunray hits them. From what she knew of Rodmilla, they simply weren't  
true. She would have thought the woman mad had it not been for the fact  
she had been dead and buried over a year ago.

"How long have you been- like this?" she asked.

"Constantine was emporer when I lost my humanity," the Baroness vacantly  
responded.

Danielle was in awe. Her stepmother close to twelve hundred years old.  
She wondered how much the Baroness could know. How many languages could  
she speak? How far had she travelled? Danielle forced herself to be  
serious. How can she not see the sun in such a long time? She had seen  
the Baroness many times in the sun, and she didn't look the least bit  
uncomfortable. She seemed to enjoy it from time to time, almost as much  
as tormenting her. But, if she did walk and go about in daylight, what  
did she do at night. Certainly not sleep. But she never recalled her  
stepmother being particularly tired. Maybe vampires didn't need sleep.  
After all, they're dead.

"How do you walk in daylight?" Danielle asked.

The Baroness was looking into a candle. The light made a glowing orange  
line down the contour of her face, like a white stripe of paint. A tiny  
bead of light sat next to her dark pupil, as if conversing in some  
secret language long forgotten by man. With her eyes thus transfixed,  
she said, "Daylight is not our natural time, but the sun cannot destroy  
us."

"Well how can you hurt a vampire?" she asked.

"That I cannot answer," Rodmilla retorted.

"But you said any question," Danielle reminded her.

Rodmilla looked at Danielle, and the expression on her face did not  
appear to fondly remember her stepdaughteres obstinacy.

"There are various ways," she began. "Each vampire has their own  
particular weakness. The methods you like to use- holy water, wooden  
stakes, garlic-" Rodmilla paused to chuckle quietly before she  
continued, "fire, and sunlight. The classical weapons of killing 'Spawn  
of Satan' as you call us, only work on some vampires. The real way to  
kill vampires is a closely guarded secret. If you were wondering how  
you could hurt me, you cannot. I will leave it at that."

For a moment, Danielle forgot about her impending doom and absorbed the  
knowledge being handed to her. For a brief instant, she considered  
herself lucky. How many people actually learned these things? There  
were the peasant beliefs, but that was not really the same thing. With  
every word, Danielle wanted to know more. She really yearned to know,  
beyond the folktales, the source of that unnatural state.

"Where do vampires come from? I mean, what is the source of  
this...evil?"

Rodmilla had shifted her focus into the endless night outside the  
queen's window. "According to popular legend, Caine. He was  
supposedly cursed by God to walk the earth and feed off the blood of  
mortals for the rest of time. But now people are beginning to ask  
questions, which may or may not reveal anything."

Danielle struggled with the phenomenon for several silent moments. Is  
what Rodmilla said true? Is she really part of an ancient and unending  
bloodline forever drenched in the stain of its founder's sin? Danielle  
couldn't imagine that fate for anyone. Even peasants seemed to have a  
better lot, for death can at least provide a source of hope, justice,  
and peace.

She pondered restlessly for the fifth question, searching the innermost  
caverns of her mind for a question that would lead her to a clear and  
final truth about her stepmother. She was certainly not who Danielle  
thought she was, but then who was she? Who was the human being beneath  
the surface? That was what Danielle really wanted to know, more than  
anything else. Who was this creature whose humanity she had only  
glimpsed at a single moment? Where had the person retreated during the  
winter of her soul?

Danielle stared into her stepmother's eyes. She sought the creature's  
face for any uncertainty, any vulnerability which marks human nature.  
She found none. Seeing the impenetrable facade, Danielle asked her  
final question.

"Who are you really?" she sternly inquired.

"What do you mean? My human name? My human identity?" was Rodmilla's  
answer.

"Yes. What is your real name?"

"Oh, Danielle, I've had so many names," the Baroness wearily replied.  
It was the first and only time in Danielle's life that the Baroness just  
seemed tired of living.

Danielle pressed onward, "Well, could you at least tell me your original  
name?"

The Baroness sighed, apparently exhausted by Danielle's obstinacy. For  
a sliver of an instant, it was Rodmilla who cast her eyes downward. Her  
gaze returned towards Danielle, but instead of looking at her, it was as  
if she were staring through her like her stepdaughter was an  
insubstantial spirit. Did Rodmilla hear the question? The endless  
chasm of silence shattered when Rodmilla gulped loudly, as if something  
were trapped inside her throat. A mournful breath escaped her lips.  
The vampire turned her face away from her stepchild. Danielle gazed at  
the candlelit outline of her visage. She closely watched the eyes,  
which had undergone an amazing change. As if they always had been  
there, the bulging salt-filled droplets dangled on the edges of her  
eyes. The diamond-like tears tenaciously held onto her eyelids,  
refusing to let go.

Danielle observed the creature carefully until the Baroness began to  
speak. When Rodmilla finally spoke, it was as if the strength of her  
tremendous will had failed her, "I don't remember."

As soon as the words drifted from her mouth, a single drop of water fell  
from her eye, making a wet path down her pallid cheek. Two more  
escaped, then three, then four, until Danielle could no longer count  
their passing. Rodmilla slowly shut her eyes, sighing deeply, in what  
appeared to be an attempt to halt the inevitable lamenation. The tiny  
droplets fell by the hundreds. Their cumulated effect made Rodmilla's  
face look like the mask of tragedy. Then, like a summer rainstorm, the  
tears stopped.

Danielle did not have to wait long until Rodmilla regained her  
composure. The water upon the vampire's cheek had evaporated, leaving  
no sign that it even existed. A look of distant vacancy overcame  
Rodmilla, and Danielle began to doubt that she had even witnessed the  
past few moments. The act seemed too unreal, but she could not deny  
it. She never believed Rodmilla was even capable of human emotion, but  
the realization of her error made Danielle want to throw her arms around  
Rodmilla's neck and hold her until they were incapable of holding on  
anymore. She resisted the temptation. Yet, the display puzzled her.  
Was it possible that a single shard of humanity still lived within her  
stepmother?

"One final question," Danielle said. Rodmilla scowled at her  
stepdaughter for the outburst. "You don't have to answer."

Rodmilla returned her focus to the moonlight. "What?"

"Why did you let me live so long tonight, or for the past fifteen years  
for that matter? It would have been to your advantage to kill me or  
sell me earlier. But you didn't. Why?"

Rodmilla stared into Danielle with her dark eyes. Immediately, Danielle  
could sense some emotion, some feeling that was within her stepmother,  
but she knew that she would never again let those feelings rise to the  
surface. Were those feelings love, or just a maternal instinct to  
preserve all young? Whatever it was, Danielle supposed, it spared her  
from her death on more than a few occasions. Still, even though a swirl  
of emotion swept over Rodmilla's seemingly placid face, Danielle could  
still perceive the taint of despair inhabiting her, deep within the  
frozen depths of her heart and soul.

Rodmilla did not respond to the question. Danielle still wanted an  
answer.

"You don't hate me as much as you say you do. That's why you didn't  
kill me," she began. She hoped she was right.

"Nonsense," the Baroness blankly responded.

The young woman maintained her ground, "You lie. You don't hate me at  
all. That's why you didn't kill me then, and that's why you are  
considering sparing me now." Her words took on a strange certitude as  
she uttered them. She had known for fifteen years, although she would  
never say it, that that was the reason behind any level of mercy shown  
to her by her stepmother. It was what kept her from hating the woman  
completely.

"I know the real reason why you hated me," Danielle pursued.

A painful laugh washed over the Baroness as she asked, "Really? Why is  
that? Tell me, Your Majesty."

"You envied me because I had something you would never have, not even if  
you tried for a thousand times a thousand years. You forgot what it  
meant to be human, and when you saw what me and Papa had it only became  
clearer to you. Then Papa died, and you lost your chance to find out.  
That's why you took it out on me. You can't have the human spirit you  
once knew, so you try to take it from everyone around you! Because you  
know that deep down you really want to be human again, and that will  
never happen! Never!" Danielle swallowed hard to moisten her dry  
throat. She had become exhausted from the effort.

The Baroness sat silently in the chair, her person taking on a life that  
vampires supposedly did not have. She was very still, but something  
about her seemed feral, untamed. Danielle sensed something inside her  
stepmother that her arrogance and cruelty could no longer hide. For a  
brief instant, it looked as though the Baroness's skin could not enclose  
whatever was rising towards its surface. Something was stirring beneath  
Rodmilla, and Danielle now feared what it could be. Danielle saw it in  
her eyes. The depths of her already dark oculi seemed to grow even more  
profound. Something invisible, yet powerful, churned within her eyes,  
as a torrid river whipped into a frenzy by a strong wind. Danielle knew  
that her final moments were at hand, but if she provoked her stepmother  
any further, they would come sooner than expected.

As she looked at her seated stepmother, Danielle noticed that the  
mahogany chair now possessed deep, cream-colored scars. Danielle stared  
at her stepmother, whose appearance assumed a frightening demeanor.  
Looking at the Baroness, Danielle noticed the peculiarities of her  
hands. The woman's fingernails had grown into long, white talons. When  
the woman finally spoke, Danielle could see, though they were almost  
concealed, that her stepmother's perfect white teeth had grown a set of  
rapier canines.

"You seem as though you wish to invite your doom," she growled.

Danielle tried to regain her breath long enough so she could make a run  
for it, but she was worn out from the outburst she gave earlier. She  
heard her heart beating furiously, and she listened to see what it  
sounded like before it would stop forever. Before she could even blink,  
her stepmother was upon her, holding her still with her awesome strength  
and not very gently biting into the nape of her neck. It was not as  
painful as Danielle had imagined. She could feel the life force gushing  
out of her body and hear her stepmother gulping the vitality with almost  
religious ferver.

Danielle was amazed by the sheer physical presence of the vampire. She  
hovered over her as a tigress over a fawn. There was nothing soft about  
the creature, none of the squishy layers of skin most noblewomen wear.  
Rodmilla felt heavy upon her, as if she were carved of stone- weighty,  
dense, powerful in its stillness.

As the feeling went away from her head and neck, she only felt a  
tingling as Rodmilla's hair spread across her body like an ebony sheet  
made of Chinese silk. She could hear the vampire's heavy breathing upon  
her; it scalded her flesh and incensed the hairs on the skin there.  
Danielle was overwhelmed by the heat that suddenly emitted from  
Rodmilla's hands and lips. Yet, even when Rodmilla seemed so alive, the  
stiffness of the dead was upon her, but the stiffness came from tension  
and not decay.

Danielle then heard the sound of a velvety moan flow from the throat of  
this fascinating creature. It was a sound akin to that which lovers  
make when they consumate their mutually felt desire. The timbre came  
again, repeatedly, soothing Danielle as it made her afraid, for she knew  
that an end to the haunting, wordless song was the end of her life. She  
wondered if she was already dead. If so, she could still see, and hear,  
and feel to a large extent. The monody stopped. Danielle felt Rodmilla  
ease her grip and slide over to her side, the black curtain of hair  
pulling itself after her. A surprisingly gentle touch came from her  
stepmother as she turned Danielle's youthful head towards her undead  
face.

Rodmilla had suddenly became very colorful, more resplendent than most  
people. No more did she look like a skeleton barely covered in skin and  
veins. In Rodmilla's cheeks, lips, hands, and neck, the blood of her  
stepdaugther gave a sanguine hue to the normally pale skin. A vitality  
apeared in Rodmilla that was not present before the feast. Danielle  
looked at her stepmother lying next to her, with her eyes closed and her  
breaths soft as a feather falling. Gone was the rage and despair.  
Replacing those baleful emotions was a sort of calm that mortals rarely  
achieve. Danielle realized at this moment, her stepmother possessed  
more serenity than the most devout of Christians can find in an entire  
lifetime. At this moment, Rodmilla was no longer a noblewoman, or a  
stepmother, or even a vampire, but an entire being connected to the  
wellspring of all creation.

As Danielle lay on the bed, hovering between life and death, Rodmilla  
settled on top of her, as before, but with her now crimson lips pressed  
against her ear. She felt a tickle as the moist mouth began to move.

"Perhaps you were right after all," Rodmilla teased. The sound of a  
suppressed giggle escaped her mouth. Danielle simply lay silent,  
feeling the tug of death upon her body.

With those words, Rodmilla leaned forward on Danielle and kissed her  
gently on the forehead. It was a kiss that she wished could last an  
eternity. It made her feel so complete, so whole, so loved, that she  
did not want it to end. Then, breaking her usual custom as before,  
Rodmilla gave Danielle a delicate and maternal kiss upon her lips. It  
was a passionate kiss, an extremely sensual and seductive kiss, but  
essentially a kiss belonging to a mother. Finally, after all those  
years, Rodmilla gave Danielle a small piece of what her stepchild wanted  
from her, a gesture representing all the young queen ever wanted from  
her estranged stepmother. Now it was Danielle who cried, for this  
moment meant the world to her. She began to sob quietly as the salty  
droplets cascaded down towards the silken pillow. Rodmilla took her  
long, agile fingers and wiped the tears away from Danielle's face. The  
vampire grazed the young woman's hand with her own, and still holding  
onto the tiny digits, regally climbed out of bed. As the woman reached  
the edge of the bed, Danielle gently latched onto the warm fingertips of  
her stepmother, and for a fraction of an instant she felt the lady  
return the gesture before she allowed them to part. Rodmilla, with  
leonine grace, exited the room.


End file.
